The Girl Who Cried Wolf(3)

‘I’m not really into subtlety. A long, blonde mane catches the eye and that’s job done. Anyway, Scarlett what’s-her-face is so stunning she doesn’t need hair. I do.’

Having never liked my dark blonde tresses, I passed Izzy the bleach…

Needless to say, despite the successful experiment, I’ve had a dreadful week since then and just wish someone at school would fall pregnant or catch chlamydia – anything to take the heat off us. No one knew we existed until this sorry affair was exposed, and now the teachers think we’re a bunch of cider louts being influenced by either a raging hypochondriac or an unmotivated imbecile.





Chapter Two:


The Mad Hatter


My mother received a letter from Dr Braby seven days after our first meeting. I skilfully intercepted it, wanting to keep its contents to myself for the time being. It said that following her assessment of my health and fitness, she had referred me to a Mr Raj at the Milton Keynes General Hospital, Friday, 23rd September. How very strange, I thought, because obviously I knew that there was nothing wrong with me.

Perhaps she was punishing me in some sort of ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ way and I would have to humour her. Another seven days of waiting and I’m definitely beginning to feel a little apprehensive. I’d guessed that the two possible outcomes of our initial appointment were a) I would receive a warning to the effect of needing to improve my attendance at school, or b) I would be suspended. I did not foresee being sent to hospital to see a Mr Raj. Who the hell was he, anyway?

Later that day, Jules and I Googled him. Up comes his picture from the hospital website. He’s dark skinned, in his late fifties perhaps, with a serious expression but reassuringly kind eyes.

‘It says hear he specializes in neurology.’

‘What in the world might that be?’

‘Sexual diseases,’ pipes up Miles, whom I look at in horror.

Obviously it was the reaction he had hoped for. He goes on to inform me that neurology is the study of sex-related diseases, primarily gonorrhoea and syphilis.

‘Shut up, Miles, just because you’ve got pubic lice doesn’t mean everyone else has. It’s to do with the brain, Anna,’ said Jules.

‘She’s sending me to see a shrink?!’

I slam down the laptop and put my head in the fold of my arms on the table.

‘This is beyond a joke. Now they think I have psychological problems … because I’ve tried to blag a couple days off school here and there?’

I don’t see Jules snort but I hear her.

‘I mean it’s normal to hate exams, isn’t it? They’re the ones who need their heads tested. Not me.’

I am angry now, and beginning to sense imminent disaster. A dark feeling creeps slowly over me. It’s still there as I’m called into Mr Raj’s office the following week.

***

‘Anna Winters? Please come in and have a seat.’ He points to an enormous wing-back chair facing his desk, as he sits opposite, eyeing me with interest.

‘Are you a psychiatrist?’ I ask, holding his gaze with my chin held up defiantly.

A hint of a smile and then, ‘No, Anna. I’m a neurologist; I specialize in the workings of the brain, among other things.’

‘Oh.’ I take this in while I literally have to pull myself onto the chair and scooch back. The chair is so huge I feel like Alice in Wonderland, when she is very small and the world is getting bigger around her.

‘Dr. Braby has asked me to meet with you today. She is studying neurology also, part time, and she has a keen interest in all things brain!’

I feel like I’m missing something, so I say nothing.

‘During your physical examination and having …’ He looked down at his notes at this point. ‘… attempted to separate fact from fiction … she picked up on a few things that may warrant further investigation.’

He takes off his glass and comes round to my side of the desk, leaning against it and folding his arms.

‘I need to ask you some questions, some of which may seem strange but it is of the utmost importance that you answer them as accurately and as honestly as you can.’

‘OK.’ I try to sound as bored as possible but my voice comes out with a quiet quiver. Something is not right here, and I’m still convinced that he is psychoanalyzing me.

‘What is today’s date? Including the year.’

That throws me a little; I was expecting him to ask me how I felt about my father.

‘Erm, the twenty something of September, 2015.’

He leans behind him and marks something on a piece of paper.

‘And who is the Deputy Prime Minister?’

I look behind me at this point, expecting to see Jules with Miles, sniggering at their practical joke. Or maybe Ashton Kutcher.

I offer him a cautious ‘Ed Miliband?’ as I do not know, and never have known, who the Deputy Prime Minister is, but I have heard of Ed Miliband because Jules says her Uncle Rupert looks like him.

‘And tell me your date of birth, including the year.’

Nice and easy. I start with confidence. ‘The first of September …’ then my mind just goes blank. Of course I know what year I was born. It is there somewhere but the information will not reach my mouth. He watches me struggling, seemingly unconcerned that he has me so thrown and nervous I can’t remember my own bloody birth year.